


never be done

by Jae



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jae/pseuds/Jae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-WWI AU. Jon wants to see something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never be done

The professor was late.

Jon checked his watch for the second time in five minutes, but it was still true. It was unlike Dean to be late; the old man generally ran the academy with military precision. Jon opened his sketchbook and lined up his pencils along the edge of the desk, then nudged them toward the edge with the palm of his hand, catching them at the last minute from falling to the floor. When he noticed the man sitting across from him watching, he caught the last pencil and then put it back down on the desk, flushing. Most of the men in the class were older than he was, finishing their education after years away in the service, and this class was just another requirement for most of them to fulfill before moving on to careers in drafting or illustration. For Jon, it was the class he'd been waiting for since he'd started at the art academy, and he was tired of waiting.

The door opened with a creak and every head in the room swung toward it. No one looked away when instead of old Dean a slender blonde girl slipped into the room, looking around quickly and then sitting down in the nearest seat, the one next to Jon. No one looked away as she opened up her sketchbook and lined up her own pencils, keeping her eyes firmly on the desk. Every once in a while women sat in on some of the classes, it was true, but they were always the same type, middle-aged, blowsy women who came in pairs and button-holed the professor afterwards ruthlessly to discuss the weekend's reviews in The Times while the professor glanced desperately at the door.

This girl looked nothing like that, Jon thought as he watched her, her face carefully composed, only the hint of a blush over her cheekbones showing that she heard the comments being passed around her. When she dropped a pen after a particularly loud remark Jon took pity on her.

"I think you're in the wrong room," he said quietly as he handed the pen back to her.

"No," she said. "It's number 7, I double-checked."

"No," Jon said. "I mean yes, this is room 7 but it can't be – you're not – I really think you're in the wrong room." When she just looked at him Jon felt himself flushing again. "You're in – this is the life drawing class."

"Yes," she said calmly, her blonde braid falling over her shoulder. "I know."

Old Dean had really changed since last semester, Jon thought, if he was letting girls in the life class. The old man was famous for not letting any first year students take it at all, no matter how talented, and for exercising a veto over anyone whose talent he felt had not "sufficiently matured" by their second year. Jon had held his breath until he found his name on the list of registrants. He'd been looking forward to this class since he'd enrolled in the school, even though he knew by now that the only model the beginning students were allowed near was Mabel, a woman as old as Dean who, rumor had it, had been posing for the professor's classes since both he and she were young. It was impossible to imagine Mabel young, much less Dean, but still, after all the time he'd put in sketching apples and pears in still life class and listening to Dean drone on about the history of art and the Old Masters, Jon was more than ready to make some real art, to draw something that lived and breathed and that couldn't be used to make a tasty dessert for the students' lunch the next day.

The door creaked open again and again everyone turned. This time, instead of old Dean, a short dark-haired man in a paint-smeared shirt tumbled over the threshold, his hands full of papers. "Oh, hello," he said as he made his way toward the front, dropping papers as he passed and ignoring the efforts of various students to hand them back to him, "hello, everyone – oh, hello, Greta," he said as he stopped by Jon's desk briefly, "glad to see you made it." The girl next to Jon flushed again as she smiled.

"Hello, Pete," she said.

The new professor dumped his remaining papers on the desk, then hopped up to sit on top of them, crumpling them beneath him. "Well," he said as he looked out over the room, "as I devoutly hope you will have noticed, I am not Professor Dean."

Jon smiled politely at this, but most of the students just stared blankly at the new professor with slight hostility. They were serious men, for the most part, and did not in general look kindly on light-heartedness, or the pretension often associated with art in more elite schools. More than one young professor had been thoroughly quashed by their businesslike manners and indifference to anything that would not further their practical plans for their careers.

"I'll be teaching this class this semester," the new professor said, "or at least until they throw me out," and again only Jon and the girl next to him, Greta, smiled. Then he said, "I'm Pete Wentz."

The name kicked up a murmur that swirled around the room like a sudden storm. Wentz had had a minor career as a quite competent painter before the war, but since his return he'd branched out in an entirely new direction, producing accusingly bright abstracts that half the art world hated and half the art world adored but that everyone had an opinion about. His fame in the art world, however, shrank in comparison to the name he'd made for himself during the war. Jon could see the men around him sitting up a little straighter, eyeing Wentz with an almost reluctant respect.

"Oh good," Wentz said, "you've heard of me. I've certainly worked hard enough to make sure of it. Unfortunately, controversy does not pay as well in this economy as one might have hoped – yet, at any rate – so our old friend Professor Dean has kindly offered me this position for the semester, out of gratitude for my fine service to our country and, I suspect, a certain pity for my poor long-suffering mother. He has been gracious enough to say I may stay here as long as I stay out of trouble."

Next to Jon Greta laughed out loud. Wentz frowned at her.

"Be quiet, Greta," he said with exaggerated severity, "some of our friends here don't know me yet. For all they know I will be a very strict and conservative teacher." Greta raised an eyebrow and Wentz laughed. "All right, that's probably not going to happen, but still."

Wentz hopped down from the desk and stood looking around the room for a moment. "Get out your pencils," he said, "because I'm about to tell you exactly what you need to do to succeed in this class – and, not incidentally, in your careers, and also in life." He smiled. "As you can see, I am a man of no minor ambition."

A rustle filled the room as everyone opened their notebooks and looked up at Wentz expectantly.

"A small thing," Wentz said. "You have to surprise me."

Jon had written down the word "surprise" before he realized no one else was writing.

"I don't give a damn," Wentz said, "if you can draw like da Vinci, the world is full of people who know how to draw and paint, most of them a lot better than I can, but most of them have never drawn anything the world hasn't seen a thousand times before, a million. Most of them have never done anything new – hell, most of them have never even known how to look at something like it was new. There's enough of that in the world already. I don't give a damn what you do in this class, as long as you learn how to do something that surprises me. I don't give a damn what you do as long as you learn how to do something that surprises yourself.

"For the love of God, people," Wentz said as he prowled along the front of the room, "make something new. God knows the world could use it."

Jon could feel the growing silence in the room, the cold hostility rising again, but he didn't care. He was the only one writing again, but he didn't care about that either. He penciled, "Make something new," at the front of his notebook, and then looked back at Wentz. He'd been excited about this class when he thought old Dean would be teaching it. Now he was something more than excited.

Wentz looked around the room one last time and sighed. "All right," he said as he sat down behind his desk. "Shall we begin?"

Jon looked around for Mabel but didn't see her. Instead a tall blond boy who'd been slouched in the last row stood up and made his way to the front of the room. There was a small platform there, and he looked at it and then looked at Wentz. "Here?" he said, and when Wentz nodded he stood on it and then stared out at the students, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Everyone, this is Tom," Wentz said, and looked hard at a man in the front row until he stuttered and said, "Um, I'm Michael." Wentz made them all go around the room giving their names in turn, which Jon was fairly sure was not part of the usual practice in this class. Still, when it was his turn he looked up from his sketchbook for a moment and said, "Jon," and Tom nodded briefly at him.

"Hello, Tom, I'm Greta," Greta said. "Thank you so much for doing this for us."

Tom grinned at her and she grinned back like she couldn't help it. "Your name I'll remember, Greta," he said, and they smiled at each other until Wentz rolled his eyes and coughed.

"All right," he said, "now that we're all friends, let's get on with it."

"Okay," Tom said, and right there in front of them he pulled his shirt over his head.

Jon was fairly sure that this was also not part of the usual practice. There was a little curtained off corner of the room that was meant for a dressing area, he almost pointed out to Wentz as Tom struggled to kick off his shoes. The model was supposed to change there, and come out in a robe, and then – well, Jon supposed the robe would come off, but it seemed more decent that way, somehow, more decent than watching Tom shove his pants and his underwear down in one motion, than watching Tom turn around to put his clothes on a chair behind him and then turn back. It was indecent, Jon thought. He could hear himself breathing very evenly and regularly. He looked down at his sketchbook. Next to him he could hear Greta breathing very carefully too.

He looked back up when Tom said, "So how do you want me?"

"However you like," Wentz said, "just stand still."

Tom shifted back and forth, then crossed his arms over his chest again, standing with his weight a little on one leg so his hip canted out. Jon picked up his pencil, then put it back down. He didn't know where to look – or rather, without his approval his eyes seemed to know exactly where they wanted to look, but Jon was not about to draw that, although it certainly might surprise Wentz, Jon thought viciously. Around him there was some muttering as people began to draw. It was unfair, Jon thought, he'd come to this class expecting a professional model, expecting someone he could use to create art, and instead he'd gotten – well, instead he'd gotten someone who looked like he'd stepped out of half the paintings Jon had been studied endlessly in old Dean's classes. That was what he should concentrate on, Jon thought as he picked up his pencil again. Tom's broad shoulders, his narrow hips, the classical line of his throat, Jon could do something with those, he thought, and then flushed again.

Jon focused very closely on Tom's arm, just his arm, the swell of his bicep, the curve of his forearm. There was a bruise just barely visible below his shoulder, but Jon didn't let that distract him. Modeling had never paid much, Tom probably had another job that involved lifting heavy things or moving them around. The models in the Old Masters had mostly had other jobs too, Jon remembered from his reading.

"Hey, Pete," Tom said, and when everyone looked up he bit his lip and then lowered his voice. "Pete, can I smoke?"

"No you may not," Wentz said. "You'll ruin the line – you can stand there and look pretty and be quiet."

He stood up though and lit a cigarette of his own, walking over to Tom. When he held it up to Tom's mouth he put a hand on Tom's hip, and Jon saw another bruise there, larger and darker than the one on Tom's arm, almost exactly the size of a man's hand. Models mostly had other jobs too, Jon knew from hanging around in cafés with artists. He shook his head and then focused again carefully on Tom's arm, only on his arm.

Wentz wandered around the classroom, looking over shoulders at drawings, offering advice or corrections. When he reached Greta he stood for a moment, watching, and then bent down next to her, reaching for her pencil. "Not that," he said, tapping one page of her sketchbook, "and not that either, that's terrible. But that," he said, tapping again, "you've got something there, that's – that's not half bad. You've got something," he said, and from the corner of his eye Jon saw Greta smile quickly and then bend again seriously over her pad.

Jon stared down at his own work, trying to ignore Wentz standing over his shoulder. He glanced up at Tom and then down again, drawing industriously. "Well, well," Wentz said finally, "Mr. Walker, is it?" Jon looked up, and then away from Wentz's amused smile.

"Well, well," Wentz said again. "I am surprised."

Jon would have been more gratified if Wentz had been looking at his work.

When the bell rang Jon gathered up his things but Wentz put a hand on his shoulder. "Come out for a drink," he said, "I'll tell you scurrilous stories about famous people."

"He has some good ones, too," Greta said as she fastened her shoulder bag. "They're all lies, but they're really good."

Wentz hooked a hand in the strap of her bag as she moved toward the door. "Where do you think you're going?"

"They're expecting me at home," Greta said.

"Let them expect you a while longer. You can tell them you were with me – they've known me forever." Greta gave him a long look, and Wentz laughed. "I'm reformed now – I'm a war hero. Surely they can trust me?"

"The problem is," Greta said, "they've known you forever." But she waited at the door while Jon packed up his bag.

"Are you coming, Tom?" Wentz called as they left.

"Are you buying?" Tom called back.

Wentz said, "I devoutly hope not, but I'm sure someone there will," and Tom pulled his shirt on and walked out with them.

The café at the end of the street was exactly as an artists' café was meant to be, crowded and smoky and dark at all hours of the day or night. Jon pushed his way through the throng, following Wentz, who easily commandeered a table and a couple of bottles of wine and a cup of coffee for Greta. Greta and Wentz's families knew each other, Jon gathered from their conversation, and as they grew more absorbed in an animated discussion of the unfortunate marriage of someone named Squeaky, Jon turned politely to Tom.

"Did you know Wentz growing up, too?"

"No," Tom said brusquely, and then turned a little to survey the room. Jon looked at him, slouched in his chair with his legs out in the aisle, his hair falling in his face and his shirt gaping a little over his stomach where he'd missed a button, and quickly gulped down his glass of wine and poured himself another one. Then he leaned toward Wentz and Greta and tried to grow interested in poor Squeaky's travails.

It was easier after another glass of wine, and even easier after another. After another Jon offered his own advice for Squeaky, for whom he now felt a great deal of sympathy, and then, when Wentz and Greta glanced at him, said, "I believe I was promised some stories about famous artists."

Greta laughed. "Here, switch seats with me, I've already heard them all. Many times," and Jon got shakily to his feet and then sat down next to Wentz. As Wentz shouted into his ear over the noise of the crowd, Jon watched as Greta leaned closer to Tom and said something. He looked away from the room then, at her, and smiled and said something in response. Jon couldn't hear what they were talking about; their voices were too low in the raucous room, but once Tom smiled quickly and even laughed, as Greta tossed her braid back over her shoulder.

Finally Greta stood up. "I really should get home," she said, "it's terribly late, my parents will be furious." Wentz protested elaborately, at great length, but she stood firm until Tom said, quietly,

"Leave her be, Pete."

Wentz kissed her hand then, and sent her on her way. Then he poured the end of the last bottle of wine into Tom's glass and said, "I was just telling Jon here about the time I pushed old Dean into the pool, I don't think I've ever told you that one, Tommy, or at least not more than five or six times. The thing is, I'd been drinking gin, and I never get drunk on gin, or at least I never think I'm drunk on gin –"

"I should go too," Tom said abruptly, standing up so quickly he knocked Jon's chair against the table.

Wentz looked up at him. "Don't, Tommy," he said, "I need you bright and early for class tomorrow –"

"Don't," Tom said. "You said you wouldn't, if I came to your class, you said you wouldn't say anything –"

"All right," Wentz said, picking up Tom's glass and drinking from it. "Fine, just – all right."

Wentz leaned into Jon again and started to tell the story about Dean, which he'd already told earlier in the evening. Jon put his arms on the table and watched Tom walk into the center of the crowded room, wondering suddenly if he was planning to follow Greta. But Tom didn't leave the café. Instead he walked to the bar, standing at the corner and putting one foot up on the rail, staring over the bartender's head into the polished mirror that covered the wall as if he were alone.

He wasn't alone for long, though. An older man, an artist whose picture Jon had seen in the papers, left his chair and stood close to Tom as he ordered. When he handed a beer to Tom, Tom smiled quickly, and bent to say something in the older man's ear. The man laughed and put a hand on Tom's hip, and Tom swayed toward him, bending close again. They came to some agreement, because Tom left his beer on the bar and walked toward the door, the older man next to him, his hand still on Tom's hip.

Beside Jon Wentz had finished his story and fallen into an uncharacteristic silence. When Jon looked at him Wentz was staring down into Tom's glass, which he had drained a little earlier, as if he could make more wine appear if only he looked harder. Jon waved for the waiter, who looked right through him.

"How do you know Tom?" Jon asked suddenly. He was a little drunk. "He said – I asked if you knew him growing up but he said no."

Wentz put the glass down on the table and spun it expertly, letting it roll toward the edge and then stopping it with one finger before spinning it again. "I met Tom during the war," he said.

"Oh," Jon said. "I thought – I thought he was my age, he doesn't look –"

"Lied about his age, a lot of them did. Wanted to get to the action, like there was anything worth seeing there, anything worth fighting for. Couldn't wait to get to the front, the damn fools."

"Oh," Jon said. He was definitely drunk. "I really – I just admire that, what he did – and what you did, I really admire what you did, I read about it in the papers, of course, and it was just – it was really brave, I thought. I hope I'd be able to do something like that, if I had the chance. I wish – I wish I could do something great like that."

Wentz stood up and a glass crashed to the floor behind him. "Then you're a damn fool too," he said, and stalked out of the café. Jon sat at the table alone amidst the empty bottles and broken glass, then put his head down on his hands until the waiter came and rousted him out into the cold street.

The next day Jon was walking slowly to class, holding his head tenderly as if it had been made out of clay that hadn't yet been fired, when Greta ran up beside him. "Good morning," she said, and then laughed and made a sympathetic face when he winced. "You have to be careful with Pete, he's dangerous."

"So I'm learning," Jon said, and let Greta tuck her hand into his arm. "Are you ready for class today?"

It was meant to be polite conversation, but to his surprise Greta blushed. "Does it seem strange to you?" she said. Jon looked at her questioningly, and she said, "I mean, it just seems – I don't know, I feel strange, talking to Tom like that last night and now we're going to see him – I mean, I know it's just a job for him, and it's not – I don't know, doesn't it seem strange?"

Strange was not the word that sprang immediately to Jon's mind, but he said, "No, not at all, it's like you said – it's a job for him, and, well, we want this to be our job, too. You just have to put it out of your mind while we're in class, that's all."

"That's good advice," Greta said.

Jon nodded wisely and did not tell her how he'd put Tom out of his mind the night before, drunk in his bed with his hand on his cock and the sheet pulled between his teeth so his neighbors wouldn't hear anything through the thin walls.

Despite his good advice and his preparations the night before, Jon was a little nervous about how he'd be greeted by Tom and by Wentz. Wentz was in a fine mood though, loud and exuberant, bouncing down the aisles of desks and telling stories about artists he'd known while barely glancing at the students' work. Tom stood looking straight ahead at the wall opposite. Jon drew Tom's arm again, and then the curve where his shoulder and neck met, doing his best to concentrate despite his pounding headache. He couldn't help sneaking a look at Tom's hip once, where he'd seen the bruise the day before, and he couldn't help feeling relieved when all he saw was the fading mark he'd noted then. When he raised his eyes Tom was looking at him, his eyes unblinking and his lips pressed together as he watched Jon, like he knew what Jon had been looking for, like he didn't like it. Jon turned hurriedly back to his drawing.

"Good work," Wentz said vaguely as he passed, patting Jon's shoulder lightly. "Good work."

At the end of class Jon was looking forward to going back to his room, to a large glass of water and a long nap, but he took a very long time packing up his things. When Wentz paused at the door, an arm slung around Tom's shoulder, and said, "Jon, coming with us?", Jon grabbed his bag and ran to the door to meet them.

Tom didn't pose for the class every day. Wentz brought in other people on occasion, a red-haired dancer from the city corps de ballet in her slippers and tutu, an old man with a heavily lined face who smoked a fragrant pipe and talked to Wentz in a language Jon didn't recognize. Once they came into class to see a well-dressed society woman with an infant in her arms, the kind of portrait Jon would have thought Wentz to have scorned. When Wentz gestured to her the woman unbuttoned her jacket and blouse and nursed the baby at her bared breast with a tenderness that made Jon's breath catch in his throat, and Greta whisper, "oh, beautiful," as she bent her head over her pad.

Tom didn't pose for the class every day, but every day that he did they all went to the café together, Tom and Wentz, Greta and Jon. Sometimes even if Tom didn't pose he met them at night, getting up from the bar when he saw them, sliding out from under some man's hands with a murmured word. He never had much to say, though Wentz usually had enough to talk about for two, but after a few days Tom seemed to relax with them, smiling and sometimes laughing. Jon had little success at drawing him out, but he would talk to Greta, or at least listen while she talked to him, dipping his head down to catch her quiet calm voice in the noise of the crowd and to say something softly into her ear. Jon could never hear what they talked about.

One night Wentz left them early to join the red-headed dancer at another table, telling some outrageous tale at the top of his lungs while she looked at him thoughtfully. After he'd left Jon slid his chair closer to the other side of the table, where Greta and Tom were looking at a small book that Greta had brought with her.

"Yes," Greta said, "that's my favorite too, that's the best one."

Tom said slowly, "What I like is the way – it seems uneven, almost, but it's not, you only think it's uneven until you realize that it's not a picture of the old woman in the chair in the middle but of the mirror on the side, and the girl in the reflection. I like the way – the way it's made, it kind of makes you look at the side more, something about the way it's framed, or something –"

"The composition," Jon said, looking over Greta's shoulder, and then flushing when Tom and Greta glanced up at him.

"The composition," Tom said, in the same low slow voice he'd used before, and then he pushed his chair back a little and reached for his glass.

"I brought this back from the latest exhibition," Greta said, "Tom and I have been picking our favorites. Did you see it?" she said, and passed the book over to Jon.

"Yes, when it opened," he said, paging through the book. "It wasn't bad."

"It was wonderful," Greta said passionately. They looked at the catalog together, arguing good-naturedly about the works while Tom sat back in this chair and watched them. Every once in a while Greta tried to pull Tom back into the conversation but he just smiled and took a drink from his glass, until the last set of plates. These had been Jon's least favorite paintings in the exhibit – "sentimental and maudlin," he said, while Greta claimed that the colors and the brushwork made them stand out.

"We'll never agree," Greta said finally, "you'll have to be the deciding vote, Tom." Jon expected him to smile and shrug again, but instead he pulled his chair closer and took the catalog from Greta, spreading it out on the table between his hands and studying it. Finally he said,

"I don't know, but – there's something wrong about the color. It's not – it's not right, it's too pretty, in a way. Fields don't look like that, not in real life. It's almost like – like a fairy tale or something. It doesn't look real."

"I told you," Jon said victoriously, helping himself to Wentz's unfinished glass of wine.

Greta stood up, packing the catalog into her bag. "There's something to be said for fairy tales," she said. "Anyway, it's much too late, I have to go."

After she left Tom got up too. "I'm done for the night as well," he said. Jon looked around at the crowded tables and then sighed.

"I guess I'll go home then," he said.

To his surprise Tom didn't go to the bar but instead walked out with him. In the cool night air outside he bumped against Jon's shoulder and said, "Well, good night."

"I liked what you said in there," Jon said suddenly. "About it looking like a fairy tale. I hate that, it's what I could never stand about all those old paintings Professor Dean made us look at, a thousand insipid Madonnas with their perfect Children, they always looked fake somehow. I like something real."

"I don't know," Tom said. He pushed his hands into his pockets and stepped a little closer to Jon, into the circle of silver light thrown by the streetlamp. "I see what you mean, maybe, but – one time in France, I saw this painting, the mother and the baby. It was in this blown-out church, the roof and all but one wall had been bombed out, and there were like, cows and sheep wandering around, but when you looked up this picture was still hanging on the one wall that was left and it was just – I don't know. There were hundreds of guys wandering around, yelling and stomping around, and the cows and the sheep all underfoot and they smelled like hell, and we were all dirty and exhausted and it just – you would have thought that that was what was real, right? The noise and the stink and the way you felt like you were going to fall asleep standing up in your boots if you had to walk another step, but you looked up and you saw this picture, the mother and the baby and you just – "

Tom closed his eyes and tipped his head back like he could see it again. In the pale lamplight Jon could see his long lashes and a few freckles scattered across his cheekbones. "It was like that painting was the only real thing, and the rest of us were all –"

"Ghosts," Jon said softly. Tom opened his eyes suddenly and looked at him, then shook his hair down in front of his face.

"Ghosts," Tom echoed, twisting his lips around the word. In the dim lamplight he looked almost like a ghost himself, his face pale and his hair shining almost white. He turned and started walking down the street, his hands still pushed into his pockets. Jon watched him till he was halfway down the block, then chased after him, running the last few steps.

He wanted to ask Tom more about France, how long he'd been there, where he met Wentz, but when Tom turned to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes Jon said, "Did you see the exhibition, the one Greta was talking about? It's up until next Friday, if you wanted to catch it –"

"Pete took me," Tom said.

"Oh," Jon said. "Does he – does he take you to exhibitions a lot?"

"He likes to take me to stuff like that," Tom said roughly. "He has some idea that my current way of life doesn't offer a lot of cultural opportunity. But I told him, hey, I bet I know more artists than anyone else in this town – at least, more artists with a little money in their pockets."

"Oh," Jon said again. Tom started walking again, hands in his pockets, leaning into the wind like he couldn't wait to get away. Jon knew how to take a hint, but for some reason he didn't. Instead he followed again, walking quickly to keep up with Tom.

"So, that exhibition," he said, "what was your favorite? I mean, I know you hated those pastorals, just like me, but what did you like best?"

Tom glanced at him, biting his lip like he was deciding if he'd let his next words out into the night. Finally he mumbled, "The one Greta and I were looking at, with the mirror, I liked that. And the ones in the third room, do you remember? The jungle ones, I liked the colors."

"I loved them," Jon said, "I couldn't believe the colors, I don't know how he got them to look so raw. They didn't look like oils, but I don't know what else they would have been. I suppose he makes them himself, I wish I knew how he did it."

Jon kept up a steady conversation for the next several blocks, asking questions every now and then that Tom always answered, if quietly and never at length. The night grew colder and the neighborhoods they walked through grew louder and dirtier, until Jon was kicking trash into the gutter as he walked and turning his head suddenly at a shout or a raucous laugh. Finally Tom stopped in front of a tenement block. Jon stopped, too. Tom looked at him.

"You can't come in," he said at last.

"Oh," Jon said. "Oh, right, of course, I just – well," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I guess I just caught up in our conversation. I should head back, it's late, so – anyway. Good night, I guess."

"Good night," Tom said.

Jon turned and walked back the way he'd come. It was a straight, if long, walk back to the café, he thought, which was good as he didn't exactly know where he was. It wasn't a neighborhood he'd ever spent time in. The night was very cold, and he wondered if he could catch a cab out here, and if he had the money to pay for one. At the corner he stopped and took his wallet out, counting up bills surreptitiously.

"Hey!" Tom yelled. Jon turned and Tom was still standing in front of his building.

"Are you all right?" Tom said. Jon nodded. "You just – you shouldn't hang around in this neighborhood this late." Jon nodded again, and started walking, pulling the collar of his coat up. At the end of the next block he looked back to see Tom still standing there, watching him.

The next night Tom was waiting for them at the café, ignoring the joking comments when he got up from a full table. He leaned down to let Greta kiss his cheek and then said to Jon quietly, "So you made it home last night."

"Safe and sound," Jon said, feeling like an idiot when Greta and Wentz looked at him curiously. He felt a lot less like an idiot when Tom smiled at him.

As the semester passed their meetings became a ritual Jon looked forward to, gathering at the café every evening, Greta leaving early to go home to her parents' house, Wentz staying at the table telling stories or abandoning them for his new friends from the ballet. Most nights Tom got up to leave right after Greta, heading for the bar and whoever would take him home, and Jon never asked him about it. Once, while Tom was talking to some man at the bar and Wentz was staring moodily down at his glass (his dancer had gone on a brief tour to the provinces), Jon said, "Do you think, maybe, I was thinking if you asked in the other classes you could maybe get him some more modeling work, or else maybe something else at the academy. He could make deliveries, maybe, or, I don't know, there might be something –"

Wentz looked at him sharply and then laughed, so sharply that Jon flushed without knowing why. "Do you think he does it for the money?"

"I – he does," Jon said in confusion, because he did, Jon knew. Jon knew where Tom lived and he'd seen someone tuck a bill into Tom's back pocket before they'd left the café and three days ago he'd heard Tom joke, when Wentz asked him about his bruised eye, "a little dispute about a bill."

"I've offered him more jobs than I can remember," Wentz said, "I started offering long before it occurred to you to inquire, I had to practically fucking beg him to come to my class at all and he'd only do it if I promised not to try to make him stop the other. He does it," Wentz said, "because he fucking wants to, he fucking wants to and if you don't understand that you don't know a single thing about him."

"I don't believe you," Jon said, because no one wanted to do that. People did it, Jon knew, some of the women who posed for the advanced classes and privately for the artists, and people who were even worse off, people out on the street behind the theaters and the bars and in other places, probably, places Jon hadn't been. But no one ever wanted to.

"You're a fool," Wentz said, but he sounded tired, and sad. When Jon stood up to go Wentz didn't stop him.

The next night at the café Greta came in late, after Jon had already met up with Wentz and Tom. Wentz was quiet, brooding over his drink, and Tom was watching him, so distracted he barely answered Jon when he spoke. Jon had resigned himself to a poor evening when Greta finally appeared. She was dressed more formally than Jon had seen her before, in a fine blue dress with her hair clubbed up high on her head instead of in her usual braid. When Wentz offered her a drink she let him pour her a glass of wine for the first time ever.

"Just half of one," she said, but didn't argue when he filled it up.

She was more talkative than usual, full of stories about their classes and the gallery she'd visited a few days ago, turning her attention to Jon when Tom and Wentz stayed quiet. Wentz's dancer joined them and Greta got up to greet her, kissing her affectionately and asking for stories of the tour, sipping at her wine while Ashlee chattered. After she'd finished her glass of wine she turned it between her hands, holding it up so it caught the light, and said, "So I have some news."

"What is it?" Jon asked, when it became clear no one else would.

"I'm getting married," she said, holding her hands up again, empty this time, so that her ring sparkled in the light. Tom sat up but didn't say anything, and Wentz didn't move. Ashlee caught Greta's hand and held it still to admire the ring.

"Wow," Jon said. "I mean – congratulations. That's great, but it's – wow, it's a surprise. I mean, I didn't even know you had a boyfriend."

"She didn't," Wentz said. Greta and Ashlee looked at him. "Well, she didn't."

"I've known him forever," Greta said. "Jack's parents are great friends of my parents, we practically grew up together."

"Do you know him?" Jon asked Wentz, who nodded.

"Could be worse," he said, "if you absolutely have to get married."

Greta bit her lip and Ashlee said, "That's not a very nice way to congratulate someone."

As Ashlee and Wentz argued about his felicitations, Tom slid into the seat next to Greta. She looked at him quickly and then turned to Jon, saying, "My parents are very pleased," but Tom put a hand on her arm and then took it away, saying, low,

"Greta, I wouldn't."

"He's very nice," Greta said. "He's very nice, and I've known him forever, and I – he knows about my art and he'll let me keep it up, he wants me to keep it up, he says, even after we have – as long as it makes me happy, he says, and as long as it's not too shocking." She laughed, putting her hand to her mouth so the ring sparkled again.

"Everything about you is too shocking for someone like that," Tom said. "Everything real."

"Do you know him?" Jon asked, but Tom shook his head.

"I know the type," he said, and Greta laughed again, the same brittle way.

"He's very nice," she said, and Jon said,

"I'm sure you'll be very happy."

"How?" Tom asked rudely. "How will she possibly be –"

"Don't," Greta said. She looked over to where Ashlee and Wentz were still arguing and then said softly, "Tom, please don't. I can't – my parents have been talking about how it's time for me to give up this foolishness, my classes and my painting, and act like an adult, get married, and I – I'm not like you, Tom, I can't do what you do."

Tom's head swung towards her quickly, and then away just as quickly, dark red spreading over his cheeks in blotches like he'd been slapped. "I didn't mean –" he said, and caught his breath with an ugly gasp.

Greta said, "I didn't mean that –" and then put her hand over her mouth when Tom caught his breath again. "I just meant – I can't be, I'm not brave, like you are, I can't give up everything, I can't leave everything behind like that. I can't – " She swallowed hard and then said, "I don't want to be all alone, if I don't have to."

"No," Tom said, his face white where it wasn't red. "No, no one would, if they didn't have to."

He pushed his chair back, loudly enough that Wentz and Ashlee looked up. Without a word he stalked off toward the bar. Wentz stood up to follow him, then fell back into his chair. Ashlee came over to sit next to Greta, pouring her another glass of wine and then taking both of her hands while Greta said helplessly, "Nothing will change, I know nothing will change."

Jon sat next to Wentz and watched Tom at the bar as he laughed recklessly with an old gallery owner and then dragged him to the bathroom. "Nothing will change," Wentz said, and then laughed so that Greta and Ashlee stared at him.

After her glasses of wine Greta was unsteady, or at least that was the reason they all decided to believe. Ashlee and Wentz took her home, while Jon stayed at the table drinking the last of the wine and wondering if Tom would come back or if he'd left for the night. Finally Tom emerged from the bathroom, his hair mussed, rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. He threw himself into a chair next to Jon without saying anything.

Jon wanted another drink more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, but he'd finished the bottle and he didn't have any money. Tom never had money, except when he'd done something like he had tonight, but Jon didn't want to ask. After a long silence he said, "Do you – would you like to come back to my place for a drink?"

Tom stared at him, then laughed, recklessly like he'd laughed at the bar earlier. "Sure," he said. "I'd love to come back to your place for a drink, I guess it's about time, isn't it?" He shoved his chair away from the table and followed Jon out the door.

Jon didn't live far, but still it was a long cold walk, Tom striding ahead of him in silence until Jon had to call him back when he overshot the turn. Once in his apartment Jon wandered around picking up stray plates and clothes, looking for his bottle opener and calling out to Tom from the kitchen while Tom stood in front of the windows in the living room.

When Jon came out with a bottle of wine and two glasses, Tom turned to him and said, "So what do you want?"

Jon looked at him blankly, raising the bottle of wine a little higher. "I – I don't know," he said.

"Well, you have to know," Tom said, his voice loud and angry. "That's how it works. You tell me what you want, and I tell you how much it costs, and then you give me the money and I do it."

"Oh," Jon said. He put the bottle of wine down on the table. "Oh, I – no," he said.

Tom looked at him.

"No," Jon said again. "I didn't – I didn't mean, I didn't want – no." When Tom kept looking at him, Jon thought that maybe the misunderstanding was even worse than he'd originally thought. Maybe Tom needed the money, maybe he'd come home with Jon instead of going with someone else and now he wouldn't have the money he needed. "I can – I'm sorry, I must have – there was a misunderstanding but if you want, if you need – I have money," Jon said. He looked around for his jacket and his wallet. "I mean, I don't want you to – but if you need it I can pay you."

Tom stared at him, then sat down abruptly on the couch. He put his hands over his mouth and his head down. Jon drew closer, to see if he was all right, but when Tom looked up he was laughing.

"I'm sorry," Tom said, "I'm sorry, it's just – no one ever offered to pay me not to do it before."

Jon laughed a little himself. Then he said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you think – I just wanted another drink and didn't have any money, and I thought you might want one too, and – anyway, I wouldn't, I wouldn't ever have asked you to –"

Tom stopped laughing. "No," he said. "It's my fault, I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't. I just – I just forget what it's like, having friends."

"There's Wentz," Jon said.

"Yeah, maybe," Tom said. "It's hard for him, I'm hard for him – Pete's not good with people he can't save." He held out his hand. "I could use that drink now."

After a few drinks Tom got up to wander restlessly through Jon's apartment. Jon followed him into the kitchen, then the little study Jon used for work. Tom reached for one of the sketches on Jon's desk, then stopped himself and said, "Can I?"

"Sure," Jon said, but watched anxiously from the doorway. He wanted to know what Tom would say.

Tom leafed through the sketchbook and then the drawings Jon had pinned up over his desk. He didn't pause over the several sketches of himself from class, but pulled out a drawing Jon had done of Ashlee stretching at the barre, and then another of an old man sitting out front of the café. "I like this one," he said, "I like the way you made it so you can't look at anything but her – the composition," he said, and smiled quickly. Then he reached up for the next sketch Jon had hung up.

It was small, just a quick pencil drawing Jon had done one night at the café of Greta and Tom. They had their heads together over a notebook, Tom's sleeves rolled up as he reached for Greta's braid where it hung teasingly over her shoulder. He looked young, Jon had thought that night that Tom looked as he must have done when he was in school, before the war, laughing at something Greta was pointing out with her pen. Now Tom took the sketch down and held it carefully as he looked at it.

"I remember that night," Tom said softly. He put the sketch down on the table and then touched it, his finger on the end of Greta's braid. "Is that what I looked like, that night?"

Jon remembered that night too, had thought about it more than once alone in his bed, the way Tom looked, the way he laughed. "Tom," he said, "I think – I think you should talk to Greta."

Tom looked at him.

"I just – I bet if you talked to her, she might not do it," he said.

"I told her –"

"I mean, if you told her how you felt," Jon said. He had had too much to drink tonight, he thought. His head was throbbing and his mouth was dry. "I think if you did, she might change her mind –"

Tom looked at him blankly, his mouth open. Then he shook his head, laughing a low harsh laugh. "I don't – I'm not the kind of man for her," he said.

"You don't do her justice," Jon said. "She's not the kind of person who cares about money, or family, she doesn't –"

"No," Tom said. He left the sketch on the desk and moved closer to Jon, crowding him against the door jamb. "I'm not the kind of man for her," Tom said, and leaned down and kissed him.

Jon had seen Tom kiss other people before, at the bar or once in the alley behind the café, when he'd told himself he wanted to see if there was a shortcut back to his street, but really because he'd heard someone say Tom was back there. Jon had seen Tom kiss other people, and he'd kissed other people himself, one person, a boy at university. Kissing wasn't new to Jon, but Tom was, his chapped lips, his tongue pushing into Jon's mouth, his fingers digging into Jon's shoulder, his soft noise as Jon put his hand on Tom's jaw. When Tom pulled away, breathless, Jon said, "I didn't – I swear I didn't mean, tonight, I didn't want –"

"Do you now, though?" Tom asked hoarsely. "Do you, because I do, I want –" and Jon kissed him again, pushing him back against the wall.

This time when Tom pulled away it was to unbutton his shirt, opening the top buttons and then yanking it over his head, messing up his hair, then throwing his shirt on the floor. When he reached for his pants Jon put his hand over Tom's. He'd seen Tom do this before, in class, in front of everyone, undressing like it didn't mean anything, like it was a job, a chore. Jon didn't want to watch that again. Instead he unbuttoned Tom's pants himself, moving Tom's hands away gently when he tried to do it himself, then shoving them harder when Tom tried again. He knelt down in front of Tom and unlaced his shoes, wrapping a hand around Tom's calf as Tom stepped out of first one and then the other, then pushing Tom's pants down and off. He knelt there for a moment, looking up at Tom standing naked in front of him, and Jon had seen this many times but never so close. He'd never been so close, and he'd never been allowed to touch.

Jon put his hand over the hollow of Tom's hip, where he'd seen the bruise the first day, the bruise almost the shape of Jon's own hand. Tom caught his breath, the sound so soft that Jon only heard it because he was so close to him, so close. Jon slid his hand around Tom's hip, up to his waist and then down over his ass, listening to Tom catch his breath again and again, soft warm sounds, so close.

When Jon sat back on his heels Tom reached down and grabbed Jon's shirt with both hands, pulling him up so Jon could kiss him again. Jon ran his hand over the curve of Tom's bicep, his shoulder and then his throat, lines he knew so well he could draw them blind, lines he knew so well he saw them in his sleep and in his waking nights, lines he'd thought he'd known until now. When he touched them they felt new.

Tom pushed against him, his hands clutching Jon's arms, pushing him back into the little study when Jon tried to pull him toward the bedroom. The study was the reason he'd rented the apartment, shabby and overpriced as it was. He hadn't been able to resist the light in the room during the day, the windows that reached nearly from the floor to the ceiling. Tom pulled him back until they hit the windows then slid down until he was sitting on the floor, looking up at Jon. Jon started to undress but Tom grabbed his hands and then a handful of shirt, dragging Jon down to the floor with him.

"Come on," Tom said, "come on," and rolled over onto his belly, then up onto his knees, bracing his hands on the low wooden sill of the window. "Come on," he said again, and Jon needed no further urging to kneel behind him, to slide a hand between the soft skin of Tom's thighs and push them apart. He ran a hand up Tom's back, slowly as Tom moaned, up over the back of Tom's neck, tangling his fingers into Tom's hair where it was damp with sweat and starting to curl. Tom threw his head back against Jon's hand.

Jon had pictured this so many times, the sharp sweet line of Tom's throat as he tipped his head back, the wet open curve of his mouth, the swell of his ass as he pushed back against Jon. He'd pictured it so many times, had even drawn it in sketches he kept locked up at the back of his desk, for no one else to see. Jon had pictured it so many times he knew it by heart, the plane of Tom's cheek as he looked back over his shoulder for Jon, the pale skin of his stomach under Jon's hand. In the window glass Jon could see the reflection of Tom's face, ghostly, unreal until Jon slipped his fingers into Tom's mouth and Tom moaned, raw and real. Jon had pictured it so many times, but when he pushed into Tom it all felt new.

When he pushed into Tom, Jon felt new.

Afterwards, as Jon lay on the floor, Tom stretched on his hands and knees, his back curving up like a cat's, then turned to look at Jon. Jon wanted to draw him like that, his muscles taut, his mouth wet and open and his eyes wide. He wanted to draw him, but more than that he wanted to kiss him, so he did, sliding a hand into Tom's hair and pulling him over to hover over Jon, kissing him hungrily like he couldn't get enough, like after all he'd had of Jon he still couldn't have enough, like he never would.

"Come to bed," Jon said when Tom let go of him, when Tom rolled onto his side and lay there watching him, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

"Okay," Tom said, low, but didn't move when Jon got up, wouldn't put his hand up to take Jon's when Jon put it out. Jon had to kneel down again and coax Tom up, kissing his hip, his stomach, urging Tom up onto this knees and then kissing him again, licking at his ear, his throat, while he pulled Tom to his feet. This was something Jon had never thought to picture, Tom moving easily under his hands and his lips, turning his mouth up to be kissed again and again. Jon had never pictured this in the defiant boy who stared out at the students in Wentz's class, in the sullen man brooding over drinks in the café.

Tom was something new.

The next day when Jon woke up he was alone in the bed. He could see Tom's clothes lying on the floor so he knew Tom hadn't left the apartment. He got up to make coffee and found Tom in the study, looking at the pictures Jon had hanging there, his hands behind his back. Jon came up behind him and kissed the side of his neck.

"What's the worst one?" he said, and Tom laughed.

"No, I'm serious," Jon said. "I'm trying to get better – they say Wentz is organizing an exhibit soon, and he might ask a couple of students to show something. I'm not good enough yet, but maybe by the time he's ready – anyway. It doesn't do me any good to hear where I'm a genius. I need to know where I'm no good."

"Nothing's bad," Tom said, and when Jon pinched him he said, "All right, all right – that one," pointing to a picture Jon was particularly proud of, a sketch of two men bowing to each other in front of the café. He'd been amused by their pretension, thought it was a nice satirical commentary on the art world.

"It's just – it's not what you want the picture to be about," Tom said when Jon pressed him.

"What do you mean?"

"Look," Tom said, pointing at a corner of the picture where Jon had sketched the outlines of someone standing beneath the streetlight. "That's what you want the picture to be about, you can tell just looking, it's like five lines but it's so much more interesting than the two guys. That's what you were interested in."

When Jon leaned in closer Tom paused for a moment, then said, "You just – sometimes, looking at your stuff, it's like – sometimes what you draw is more about what you think someone else is interested in, instead of what you're interested in." Tom stopped again and then said, "I mean, not that I know what I'm talking about, I just – you should talk to Pete or Greta or someone, they'd know."

"You've told me more useful things in one night than anyone else has in – well, ever," Jon said, turning Tom around and kissing him again. "Come have coffee now, and tell me more horrible things about myself."

Tom wasn't posing for Wentz's class the next day, so the first time Jon saw him was at the café. Greta had arrived earlier, and when Jon got there she and Tom were deep in conversation at a table in the back. Jon lingered by the door, unsure whether he should disturb them, but when Greta looked up she waved to him and Tom smiled, wide and slow. Jon joined them at the table and listened while Tom and Greta talked, his hand on Tom's thigh under the table.

Wentz didn't join them that evening, so when Greta left at her usual time Jon and Tom were alone. They were quiet for a while, Jon watching as Tom tipped back in his chair, two of the rungs leaving the floor. As Jon was about to suggest going home, Tom's chair hit the floor with a bang. Tom stood up.

"I have to go," he said. Jon started to protest, then stopped himself.

"All right," he said, and met Tom's eyes when Tom looked at him. He watched as Tom made his way to the bar, as he walked out the back door with an older man Jon had seen him with before. Jon poured himself another glass of wine. He'd known, he told himself, he'd known what Tom did, what he was. This was nothing new.

After two more glasses of wine Jon was getting ready to try his luck at walking back to the apartment when Tom came back into the café. Tom looked around the room, and then walked toward Jon's table slowly. He stood over Jon's chair, rubbing at his mouth, and then said, "I didn't know if you'd still be here, or if I should –"

"Let's go home," Jon said, and Tom smiled down at him suddenly, like Jon had surprised him. "But you might have to help me get up." Tom bent down and let Jon put an arm around his shoulders, and when he straightened up Jon kissed him, quickly but right out in the open. Tom smiled again and looked down at the floor.

Sometimes Jon thought it seemed like nothing had changed at all. Tom still posed for Wentz's class, and sat with them at the café, and picked up men at the bar at the end of the night. But sometimes, as Jon watched Tom undress in class, as he sketched Tom and thought about how he knew how every part of Tom felt, how he tasted, as more and more nights he watched Tom stand up to go at the end of the night and then think better of it and sit down next to Jon, sometimes Jon thought more was changing than he could ever understand. Sometimes he thought everything was changing, as Tom curled around him in his narrow bed, as Jon saw the marks of his own hands on Tom's skin as Tom posed for the class. Everything was changing, he thought, slowly but irresistibly, the way Tom turned toward him in bed sometimes in his sleep, like he couldn't bear to be separated from him in this one place.

Everything was changing, Jon thought, even Tom, even himself.

One day Jon was waiting from Tom after a class. This was another change; Tom had finally agreed to pose for the other classes Wentz was teaching at the academy. As he leaned against the wall another man came up and stood next to him. He was military, or had been, Jon could tell from the way he held himself, tall and tense. Jon nodded at him, and the man nodded back and then said, consulting a note in his hand,

"Excuse me, can you tell me – is this the Advanced Figure Drawing class?"

"Yes," Jon said, "but you've almost missed it, it should be ending any minute."

"That's all right," the man said. "I'm waiting for someone."

He stood even taller as the bell rang and people began to stream out of the classroom, peering into every face as the students hurried past them. Finally the room was almost empty, just a few last loiterers, and then finally they were gone too. At last Tom strolled out of the class, calling something to Wentz over his shoulder, still buttoning up his pants.

"Hey," he said when he saw Jon, "do you want to get dinner before we –"

"Hello, Tom," the soldier said, and Tom froze like he'd been shot. Jon put a hand out to steady him but Tom shook him off.

"You can go to hell," Tom said viciously, biting off the words and spitting them out like poison. Jon fell back a step before he realized Tom wasn't speaking to him. Tom brushed past the man, past Jon, but the soldier reached for him and Tom swung on him, knocking him back into the wall.

"Fuck you, Carden, I told you to stay the hell away from me," Tom said as he shrank back against the doorway. Jon walked over to him carefully, not touching him but standing where Tom could see him.

"That's not the arrangement we had," Carden said, touching his lip lightly and looking down at his bloody hand with a detached curiosity that made Jon want to hit him too. "I saved your life – I'm responsible for you."

"Fuck you," Tom snarled, "I never asked you to –"

Just then Wentz walked through the door and stopped short. "Jesus fucking Christ, Carden, get the hell out of here. You said you wouldn't –"

"You said you'd look out for him," Carden said over his split lip. "You've done a great fucking job so far, wouldn't you say?"

Wentz flinched, Jon saw him. "He's not –"

"I know what he does," Carden said. "Not here, not that this is anything to be proud of, but – I've been to the café, I've heard what people say, and I – I saw him."

"He's right fucking here," Tom said.

Carden looked at him. "Yes, you are," he said. "Here you are, and are you proud of what you've done here? After everything, is this what you're doing with your life – the life you get to have, when the rest of them –"

"Fuck you," Tom said, but his voice was smaller this time, shakier. "I never asked them, I never asked you –"

"Carden," Wentz said, "come on, man, this isn't going to help, this isn't the way –"

"Don't talk to him," Tom said to Wentz, "don't talk to him about me, like I'm not even here –"

"I just want to talk to you," Carden said. "You're right, we shouldn't talk about you, you're a grown man, I just want to talk to you."

Wentz shook his head but Tom ignored him, biting his lip, then looking at Jon. "Is it all right – will you wait, if I just go talk to him for a little while, will you wait for me at the café?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Carden said, "am I interrupting your business?"

Jon almost hit him then. Wentz grabbed his arm, but Jon didn't need his help. The look on Tom's face had stopped him. "Sure," Jon said to Tom, "sure, I'll wait for you, I'll be there all night until you get there."

He watched Tom and Carden walk away in silence, Wentz leaning against the wall next to him. When they were out of sight Wentz said, "You shouldn't have let him go."

"He's a grown man," Jon said, "and like you told me, whatever he does he does because he wants to."

"I didn't mean – " Wentz said, and then he ran a hand through his hair and signed. "Never mind – come for a drink, then."

Jon was in no mood to drink with Wentz, but he'd told Tom he would wait for him and he would keep his word. After a few drinks Wentz said, "You know who he is, Carden?" and when Jon shook his head Wentz put his elbows on the table and said, "I'll tell you, then –"

Jon shook his head again. "Tom will tell me," he said, "if he wants me to know." Wentz looked at him, sharply despite all he'd had to drink, and then sat back and poured them both another glass of wine.

It was quite late when Tom came back. Jon stood up when he saw him walk in, his face pale except for a livid purple bruise around his eye, his hand bound in a neat white bandage. He sat down again when he saw Carden walk in behind Tom, his lip split more deeply than it had been earlier. Carden hovered by the doorway as Tom walked over to the table and pulled out a chair next to Jon.

"Go talk to him," he said roughly, nodding to Wentz. "He won't leave until you do."

As Wentz got up Tom turned to Jon, tipping his chin up defiantly as if waiting for Jon's questions. Jon just pushed the bottle toward him and said, "Be careful of your hand," when Tom banged it against the table.

"I broke a glass," Tom said, his chin still up. When Jon only nodded Tom said, "I suppose Pete's told you all about it, then, I guess you two probably had a nice long talk."

"No," Jon said. Tom's head jerked toward him in surprise, and he leaned toward Jon, but then looked up. Jon followed his glance to a table close to the door, where Wentz was bent toward Carden, talking urgently while Carden sat back in his chair watching Tom.

Tom swore under his breath, then leaned in closer to Jon, almost close enough to kiss him. But he only said, low, "Look, I'm sorry," and then stood up and walked to the bar, laughing raucously, drawing the attention of the men gathered there.

From where he was sitting Jon could see both of them, Tom laughing and drinking at the bar, sliding under the arm of an older man, and Carden sitting at his table staring at Tom, ignoring Wentz except to shift his chair slightly when Wentz moved and blocked his view of the bar. Eventually Tom walked through the café and out the back door, the older man's hand on the small of his back, and Jon watched as Carden stood up suddenly and strode through the front door, leaving Wentz in mid-sentence.

Jon waited at the table, ordering another bottle of wine but not drinking it. He didn't know if Tom was coming back but he'd promised to wait here for him, to wait all night if he needed to. When Tom walked back in and paused at the threshold, looking anxiously around the room, Jon was glad he'd waited. On the walk home Tom stopped at the corner and said again, "Look, I'm sorry," the first thing he'd said to Jon since he'd come back into the café, and Jon shook his head and pushed him back against the streetlight and kissed him hard.

In bed that night Tom was restless, moving impatiently under Jon, twisting until Jon grabbed his wrists and pinned him down to the bed, pushing Tom's thighs apart and then holding Tom's hips while he fucked him, more roughly than he'd wanted, while Tom moaned and twisted harder and then finally grew still. Afterwards Jon could see faint bruises smeared across Tom's wrists and his hips, his own marks much paler than the bruise Carden had left on Tom's face. It made him angry to see him there, next to Carden's marks, but he only held Tom down again, more gently this time, and traced the bruises he'd left with his mouth.

Tom sighed and said, "I don't know why you put up with it. With me, I mean."

"I love you," Jon said simply, then stopped with his mouth on Tom's skin. He had never thought to say it, but now that he had he couldn't wish the words back. He couldn't do anything but say it again.

Tom sat up beneath him, sliding away to lean against the headboard. "We were fucking," Tom said, "in France, me and Carden, I mean."

"I know," Jon said. No one had had to tell him; he'd seen the way Carden watched Tom at the bar, with other men, and recognized the look from his own face.

Tom paused at that, then took a deep breath and said in a rush, "We shouldn't have been, he said that all the time, we shouldn't, he outranked me but we – I wanted to, and I wouldn't – I always get what I fucking want, he told me, he always said I'd never take no for an answer."

For as long as Jon had known him he would have said the opposite, that Tom dared people to say no to him, begged them to, but he just nodded and waited for Tom to go on.

"It was – he was right, he was always fucking right, that's the thing, he's always fucking right but I could always make him – it was my fault," Tom said. "He's always fucking right, it was my fault." Jon didn't say anything, just watched Tom in the soft gold light of the lamp. "We were fucking that night, we shouldn't have been but I wanted – if we hadn't been, we might have gotten to the others quicker when we heard, when the sirens went off – but we didn't, we got there late, too late and they were – it was my fault," Tom said.

"No," Jon said, "no, it wasn't."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Tom said, not unkindly but firmly.

"I know you," Jon said. Tom looked at him.

"We were fucking tonight," Tom said, throwing the words at Jon like a dare. "Me and Carden, before I came back to you, we fought and then we fucked, and then he told me, he said it was my fault, he said – the wrong people died, he said, and it was my fault."

Tom laughed a little. "Just like old times," he said, and then shoved the sheet away and stood up. Jon looked up and watched him standing there, naked in the lamplight. He'd seen Tom so many times like this, in this room and in his study, in the classroom, but he'd never seen Tom look the way he did now, his face open and anxious as he waited for what Jon would say.

Jon held his hand out to him. "Come back to bed," he said, and when Tom hesitated he sat up and reached for him, pulling him toward the mattress. "Come back to bed," he said, and Tom did, lying on his side as Jon slid up beside him.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, "for tonight, about the café and – and Carden, I'm sorry. It's my fault," he said, "I'm sorry."

"Be quiet," Jon said, and when Tom wouldn't be he kissed him until he was. When Jon let go of him Tom said, "Jon," and then, "nothing, I'm sorry," and opened his mouth for Jon to kiss him again.

The next day Jon had class, and Tom did too, but neither of them went, staying in bed until the sun cast long shadows over them, until Jon had sketched them in his notebook and then again with his mouth on Tom's skin. They stayed in bed until night fell, and then Jon said, "Are you – did you want to go to the café?"

Tom was quiet a minute, and Jon said, "Let's not go, let's just stay here tonight. I think there's bread in the cabinet, and some cheese –"

"No," Tom said, "we should go, people are waiting for us." Jon didn't ask who he meant, just got dressed and walked down to the café with Tom, in silence but with two fingers linked through Tom's belt loop under his shirt.

Wentz was at a table already, with Ashlee, and Greta and a well-dressed, stupid-looking young man Jon had never seen before. "This is Jack," Greta said, and Jack stood up to shake hands with Jon and Tom. Wentz was in a brooding mood, and Tom an anxious one, both of them watching the door to the café while Jon tried to make polite, if dull, conversation with Greta's fiancée. He was listening with feigned interest to a description of the last race meeting when he felt Tom stiffen beside him and heard Wentz whistle between his teeth. He didn't need to look up to know who had come in. Instead he put his hand on Tom's thigh under the table and continued his conversation, shaking his head slightly as Greta looked at him questioningly.

After Greta and her fiancée left for the night Tom stood up, as he had done so many nights before. This time, though, Jon stood up next to him. "Don't," Tom said, but Jon slipped his fingers under Tom's belt again and said,

"Do you want to, really?"

"It's not that," Tom said, and then fell silent, his face twisting as Jon watched him try to find the right words. "Look, I'm sorry –"

"Don't be," Jon said, and kissed him right there, pushing him up against the wall, his hand in Tom's hair. When Tom pulled away briefly, looking over Jon's shoulder and then kissing him again, Jon knew they were being watched. He was glad.

Tom turned and led him out to the alley behind the café, Jon's hand still on his belt. Once there Tom pushed Jon up against the wall and got on his knees in front of him, looking up when Jon tugged at his hair. "You don't have to," Jon said, though he thought he sounded a little breathless.

"I want to," Tom said, looking up at him, and Jon didn't say anything else, just watched as Tom opened his pants, as his lashes swept down over his cheeks. When Tom finished Jon pulled him to his feet and kissed his wet mouth until Tom wrapped his arms around Jon's neck.

"I'm sorry," Tom said, and Jon said, "I love you," Tom's body warm and still against him.

They were not rid of Carden so easily. He still came to the café every night, brooding on the edges of the crowd like a ghost, but Tom grew, if never easy around him, at least quieter, glancing over at him but leaning into Jon's hand. If anything, it was Wentz, not Carden, who was giving Tom trouble. More than once Jon walked into a heated argument between the two of them, after class and in the café, Tom saying, "I won't, I told you," and Wentz answering, "I don't care what you say, I'll do it anyway."

After yet another argument that slipped into silence when Jon approached, Jon waited until Wentz had gone after another bottle of wine and said to Tom, "What's wrong with him?"

"The list is long," Tom said, and Jon laughed. Then he bumped against Tom's shoulder until Tom bit his lip and said, "Nothing, he just – Pete always thinks he knows better than anybody."

"That is a lie," Wentz said over his shoulder, making him jump. "I think I know better than almost nobody, but I sure as hell know better than you."

"Well, it's not hard," Tom admitted, and Jon laughed again. But he didn't miss the pleading look Tom gave Wentz, or the way Wentz shook his head shortly, his lips pressed together.

That night in bed Tom stole one of Jon's cigarettes and lay in bed smoking, his hair falling around him on the pillow, groaning as Jon reached for his sketchbook but not moving away. After a moment he said, "Are you going to go to Wentz's exhibition, do you think?"

"Sure," Jon said, "don't move – of course I'm going, I'm excited, even though nothing of mine got in. He took one of Greta's pictures, though, I'm going for her, and he says he's got something up his sleeve, I'm sure it will be shocking and outrageous." Tom was quiet a minute and Jon said, "Do you want to come with me?"

Tom paused another minute, and Jon said, "You don't have to, I just think – well, Wentz would like it, I think."

"Yeah," Tom said on a short burst of air, almost a laugh, then he was quiet again.

"Well, you don't have to decide now," Jon said, and didn't bring it up again.

The night of Wentz's exhibition Tom was nowhere to be found. He'd been scarce the past few days, disappearing during the day and coming late to the café, sometimes just long enough for Jon to finish the end of his drink and leave with him. Carden's visits to the café had grown less frequent, too, but Jon decided not to wonder about that either. Tom had his moods, as Jon had always known, and he had his own life, and had since long before Jon had met him.

The gallery swelled with people, the crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk as Jon made his way inside, the café regulars along with much of the art scene and a few celebrities as well. Wentz's work filled the first two rooms and Jon spent a long time studying the canvases, taking his time undisturbed by the crowd, many of whom seemed more interested in talking to each other and about Wentz than in looking at the work. It was easy to forget, Jon thought as he paused over a portrait of a dancer, the colors swirled so it looked like she was in endless motion, that Wentz was capable of this, with his outrageous stories and his frivolous manners. It was easy to forget what kind of artist he was, and what kind of man.

The third room was devoted to student work, and Jon found Greta's drawing easily, her calm confident style marking it as hers even if he hadn't recognized the scene of the mother nursing her child. The other student pictures were good, if less polished, and Jon admired them briefly and then walked into the last room.

This was Wentz's surprise, and before he could even see into the room he could tell it was a success, from the hush and then the buzz of conversation as people entered. A woman rushed past him with her handkerchief held to her face, and Jon thought it must be more outrageous than he'd expected. Then he caught sight of the pictures.

There were two paintings, each quite large, hung next to each other and nearly filling the wall of the gallery. The first was a painting of a type Jon had seen often since the war, three young men sitting among the ruins of a church, half-dressed in their kit, laughing at some shared joke. Two of the men were reclining on the ground next to each other, so close their legs were almost entangled, a book open on one man's stomach. The third was even younger, almost a boy, his helmet cast aside so his wild hair sprang around his head. The subject of the painting was not unusual, but the almost photographic detail of the painting, the precision of the brushwork and raw contrast of the colors, the dull gray and dun of the uniforms and the bright, almost harsh, green and blue of the earth and sky around them, made Jon catch his breath. It was wonderful, he thought, and then he looked at the second painting.

The subject was the same as the first, and the composition, but Jon had never seen anything like it. The boy sitting to the side still laughed eagerly down at his friends, but his jacket was torn away and stained with blood, viscera and gore spilling from his stomach, captured with an almost surgical eye. The back of one man's head was torn away, revealing blood and bone and brain almost like a drawing in a surgical textbook, while the last man still smiled out at Jon, his face blown away so all that was left was a skeleton's rictus. Jon caught his breath in, and then leaned in closer to see the artist's name.

Behind him he could hear Wentz holding forth about his new artist, and turned to see him in the center of the room, Tom shifting nervously beside him, the look on his face as familiar to Jon as the signature on the paintings, the same signature scrawled on a note on Jon's kitchen table this morning. When Tom caught sight of him he smiled, the same way he did when he saw Jon in the café, but then he saw the paintings behind Jon and looked away, stricken. Jon walked over to him.

"Did you see?" Tom asked in a soft voice, although he must have known Jon had.

"Yes," Jon said. "Yes, I saw," and then he took Tom's sleeve between his fingers and led him away from Wentz, into the room where Tom's pictures hung. The crowd made room for them, already murmuring about Tom.

"I'm sorry," Tom said quietly as they stood there, "I'm sorry I never told you about – about them, but I can't – there aren't words," he said finally. "I never had them – I'm sorry."

"Be quiet," Jon said, sliding his hand down around Tom's wrist. "I want to see."

They stood there for a time like that, quiet among the crowd, Jon looking at the painting and feeling Tom's eyes on him. Eventually Wentz came to find them, calling for Tom to join a crowd of artists and dealers who were going out together, Wentz's voice exuberant and pleased at his success. Greta was with him, too, her fiancée trailing behind, Greta's sash caught between his fingers. Tom turned to Jon and said,

"I don't want to go."

"You should go," Jon said, "just one drink," and led Tom to his admirers.

One drink led to many, as Jon had known it would, sitting back smiling in the café to see Tom awkwardly fending off the compliments and eager questions, turning to Wentz for help and then sighing as Wentz only encouraged the bidding for his work. When he was sure that Tom was well trapped between Wentz and a famous art dealer, he slipped away before Tom could see him.

At a deserted table near the door Jon stood in front of Carden until Carden reluctantly looked up at him. "What?" he said, half-rising as if ready for a fight.

"Come with me," Jon said. "I want to show you something," and walked out the door. He was only half-surprised to hear Carden following him without protest.

The gallery was almost empty now, everyone left for dinner or drinks except for a bored girl at the front desk. Jon led Carden past her, led him through Wentz's work and the students' until they arrived at the last room. Then he stood back and let Carden see.

Carden made a raw noise when he saw, putting his hand to his mouth, and sat so abruptly on a small bench in the middle of the room that for a moment Jon thought he'd fallen. He took a look at Carden's face and then left, silently, leaving Carden alone with Tom's paintings.

Jon waited outside for a long time, until the girl at the desk stuck her head out and said, "I'm supposed to close up now." Jon started in after Carden, but he came out on his own, his face pale and drawn, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He leaned against the wall outside as he lit up, watching the girl lock the doors. When she had gone, Carden looked at Jon.

"I don't understand," he said, and there was something in his voice that made Jon look away again. "I don't understand how he can – how he can do that, how he can have that inside him and then – and then be how he is, do what he's done, with all those – I don't understand, I never have. It's like – sometimes it's like he's two different people."

"No," Jon said, and Carden looked at him sharply.

"You don't know him," Carden said. "You don't know what he's done, what I've seen him do – you think you know him, but it's not – you only know part, you only know –"

"I know what's real," Jon said. "About him I do."

Carden took a puff of his cigarette and then crossed his arms over his chest. "You won't believe me," he said, "but I came back because – I heard he was in trouble, I heard he was – I thought, I thought I could do something to help. I thought – I should have known better. I only ever knew how to make him worse."

"He's not worse," Jon said.

Carden looked at him again. "It doesn't matter," he said finally. "I should have known that too. There's no way it can matter now. You can tell him – " He paused and sighed. "Don't tell him anything," he said. "There's nothing I can say that he'd want to hear."

"I think there is," Jon said tentatively. "I think, maybe, if you could tell him that it's not his fault, that you don't blame him – that would mean a lot to him, I think, if you said –"

Carden threw his cigarette on the ground and buttoned up his jacket. "Like I said," he said, "there's nothing I can say he'd want to hear."

Jon watched as Carden walked off down the empty street, and then made his way back to the warmth and lights of the café. Tom caught his eye when he walked in and twisted his face into a comic look of desperation over Wentz's shoulder, so that Jon laughed and made his way to their table. He pried Tom out of Wentz's clutches and shoved the dealer's card into Tom's pocket, promising that Tom would call the next day, and then led Tom out to the street, Tom unsteady on his feet and clinging to Jon in relief.

Outside Jon tried to guide Tom back to his place, but Tom resisted, stopping stubbornly on the pavement under the streetlight, looking up at it like he'd never seen it before. "Come on," Jon said, "it's cold," but Tom leaned back, pulling against Jon's hand.

"Come home with me," Tom said.

"I'm trying," Jon said, and then was quiet as Tom turned and headed in the opposite direction from Jon's apartment, toward the building Jon had walked him to the first night they'd been alone together. He chased after Tom for a few steps, and Tom hung back to let him catch up. Then they walked together in silence to Tom's building.

At the door to the old tenement Tom fumbled with his key, then led Jon up the dark stairwell to the fourth floor. He opened the door and turned on a lamp, then stepped aside to let Jon in.

The apartment was tiny, just one room, a narrow bed made up with military tidiness at one end and a table pushed against the opposite wall with one chair and a hotplate. Between the two was a canvas dropcloth thrown across the floor, and paintings leaning up against the walls, sketches pinned up above them. Jon recognized the first sketches for the pictures he'd seen at the exhibition, and others with the same men, and Carden, almost unfamiliar as he smiled. There was a canvas split in two, paintings of Wentz on both sides. On one side he slung an arm around another soldier's neck, grinning happily, and on the other he held the same pose, only the other soldier had disappeared along with Wentz's smile, his face as empty as his outstretched arm.

On the other wall Jon saw more faces he recognized in the paintings, Greta frowning seriously over her pad in the café, Wentz staring up at a dancer with a look of surprise on his face, as if he'd found something he'd thought he'd lost long ago. Jon saw his own face, too, as he sat among a sea of desks, looking up at someone out of the frame as he bent over his work. "Tom," Jon said, then turned to see Tom watching him carefully, sitting on the edge of the table.

Jon walked over and sat in the chair in front of him, his knees between Tom's outstretched legs. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly.

"I didn't want to –" Tom said, looking over Jon's shoulder. "I knew you wanted to have something in the exhibition, and so when Pete said – I didn't want you to feel –"

"No," Jon said, his voice still soft and calm. "No, why didn't you tell me, really?"

Tom flushed and then looked down at him. "I didn't want you to think – I didn't want you to think that this is what I am," he said, waving his arm to encompass the room. Jon just looked up at him steadily until Tom rubbed his hand over his mouth and said, "I didn't want you to see this and think that I wasn't – that you'd think I was just, like, misguided, that I didn't mean to do – "

He took a long breath and then said, "All the things I did, in the café, with men, and before, with Carden, and then, how they died – that's what I am," he said. "I did those things, and they're me, and I didn't want you to think – I didn't want you to see this and think that this was real and not the other, that I wasn't –"

"I know," Jon said. "I know what you are, I've always known. But you're not – you're all those things, Tom, and all these too. All of these things are you."

Tom bit his lip, looking down at Jon seriously. "I hope so," he said. "I wish – I want them to be."

Jon put his hands on Tom's hips and pulled him awkwardly into his lap, Tom dipping his head down so Jon could kiss him. Over Tom's shoulder Jon could see how Tom had painted him, sitting in class looking up at Tom like he was a ghost or a dream, something Jon longed for but would never be able to reach. He slid his hands up under Tom's shirt, over his back, feeling Tom's skin warm and real beneath his palms.

"All those things," Jon whispered, "you're all those things, and this too. All those things, and something else," he said as Tom curled against him, Tom's mouth moving against his throat in soundless words Jon would never hear, all the things Tom had seen that Jon would never know.

"All those things," Jon said, Tom pressed against him, caught between his hands. "All those things, and something new."


End file.
